Because it really chaps the spinster hide when perfectly reasonable behaviors are fetishexualized by the megatheopornocorporatocracy, I had planned to write a fairly epic blogular tirade about how butt-wagging is objectively an awesome pastime that, absent the ubiquitous pornsick male gaze, is in fact about as titillating as the wooden shoe dancers at Tulip Time. However, because of my grievous injury, the world will just have to wait for my incisive remarks.
[Sidebar: in case I haven't mentioned it lately, la revolución will effectively wipe out the fetishization of women's oppression, which in turn will end pornography, prostitution, rape, and the vilification of women who twerk. Until that happy time, twerking enthusiasts, like any women who do anything under a world order which consigns them to a sex class, will face sexobjectification and gross misogyny.
For more on how feminist revolt will fix everything that's wrong with human society, see Shulamith Firestone.]
Anyway, before I break out the ice pack, let me just say that I’ve been getting pretty annoyed by the nattering nabobs of negativism who in recent weeks have been so tiresome on the subject of twerking. Like all dance moves performed by women, twerking has been generally promoted as the final nail in the coffin of Western civilization.
The final nail in the coffin of Western civilization is Western civilization. And Northern, Southern, and Eastern civilization, too. Known on Savage Death Island as the culture of domination, “civilization” has contained the seeds of its own destruction since waaaay before the advent of the modern twerking menace. Thse seeds have already generated untold suffering in the shape of racism, misogyny, religion, colonialism, paternalism, factory farms, capitalism, global warming, super-bacteria, homophobia, Monsanto, fashion, massive wildlife die-offs, pollution, femininity, carcinogens, NRA, nukes, Facebook, Internet porn, cable news, $699.99 iPhones, government spy agencies, sarin gas, the unecessarily crappy food at the Creek Road Cafe in Dripping Springs TX, waxy yellow buildup, and anti-twerkism. No species can survive the incessant onslaught of these combined self-imposed afflictions indefinitely.
How to survive the next millennium? Give up the fetishization of dominance. Just give it up! You know those liberal dudes who are always dragging the goddam bonobos into it, saying humans should emulate them because they resolve their differences by boinking or whatever? Well, I say it’s time to imagine a world where the humans start behaving even more highly evolvedly than the bonobos. Because we are, theoretically. More highly evolved than bonobos, I mean. I propose a policy of conflict resolution via twerk-off.
But I digress.
Twerking isn’t even shocking, by the way. It’s just a plain old squat with a pelvic thrust component.
“She’s wagging her butt, and butt-wagging is somewhat suggestive of humping, so OH MY GOD!”
I mean, we’ve pretty much seen it all at this point, haven’t we? All imaginable disgusting fetishes, vile sex crimes, and broken taboos have have already featured on either “Law & Order: Mutilated Ladies Unit,” “South Park,” or “Toddlers in Tiaras.” Compared to that shit, twerking is about as outrageous as the Peanuts dance.
You know how I know? I decided to check it out personally, so I’ve been twerking up a storm for the past couple of days. I’m here to tell you that it’s a) pretty fun, and b) one of the silliest things I’ve ever done. Check out this how-to-twerk video and do a little butt-dance yourself. I recommend it (with caveat, below) because you, and anyone watching you, will bust out laughing or my name isn’t Twisty Faster.
There is only one dangerous thing about twerking. Which brings me to the reason I can’t write a post today.
Two days ago, insufficiently appreciative of the limitations of my atrophied twerking muscle, I accidentally blew it out during a particularly excellent hip-thrust, and keeled over forthwith. “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” was my sad refrain. With the result that my ass is now sprained, and sitting in my blogging chair causes excruciating pain. So if, like me, you are a blamer of a certain age, I suggest flexing your twerkiceps with a couple of surya namaskars prior to your first twerk, and keep your Life Alert button at the ready.
Photo: Tulip Time Parade, Holland, Michigan. May 2010. By Jilroy Frosting Psmith.